About Losing or Lost

Post 1033:

I’m reading a book about Henry James. It’s a fictional account, though it more or less follows his life. Or maybe it doesn’t. I don’t intend on becoming an expert on Henry James for the purpose of this little exercise. Probably I know more about his brother William. Talk about some brothers. But let’s be honest. There were only like ten families back in the day.

Okay, that wasn’t true. It was the late 1800s, not the week after Adam and Eve.

Anyway, Henry seemed to have a wandering spirit. He liked to observe from a distance. He was courteous and mannered and yet felt the need to keep distance from people. It was so he could write the way he needed.

I get that. Writing is a tricky business. It’s a very spiritual and psychological deal. But so is everything else that takes any kind of skill. Old Henry had preferences. He could’ve adapted. Maybe being around people would’ve made him an even better writer. Hard to say. And was the space he needed worth it? Some readers couldn’t stand the work he did back then and even more get bored with him now.

There’s a section in the book where he’s lamenting the suicide of someone he might’ve reached out to. It’s quite sad. You see that he’s regretful of not being there for her. Of course, he was being honest with himself. He didn’t like her the way she would’ve preferred. Or maybe he was just being selfish. Perhaps a combo. By the way, the novel is called The Master by Colm Tóibín. Weird name. Anyway, well written, slow stuff. Not exactly a thriller.

What am I saying? Not much, suppose. Although it does make me wonder how much we lose when we lose ourselves in our glorious pursuits. It’s a question worth asking from time to time for any person who wishes to be a great writer and doesn’t want to do it at the cost of being a dick. Give it a thought.

Cheers and see you after.